Chapter 2
Five days to the renewal of the vows ceremony
“Polly, put the kettle on,” said Jeremy, popping his head out of his office door. He grinned as if this was the first time
he’d ever said it and not the millionth. He truly was a man of astounding wit. Or at least something rhyming with it.
Sheridan, the office administrator and fourteen years Polly’s junior, made a move to get out of her seat.
“I’ll do it,” Sheridan said, uttering “wanker” under her breath, as if it was the first time she’d ever said it and not the
millionth.
“No, you won’t,” said Polly. “You shouldn’t even be working, never mind running around making coffees.”
“You do it and I’ll never speak to you again,” said Sheridan, using her scary do-not-mess-with-me voice. “I need to rub my
bum and I can do that in the privacy of the kitchen. Kill two birds with one stone. Bloody sciatica.”
She levered her heavily pregnant body from her chair and waddled off in the direction of the small kitchen.
Polly would miss working with this young breath of fresh air when she went on maternity leave, and she’d been selfishly glad that Sheridan had decided to work as near to her due date as possible so she could have maximum time with her new baby.
Sheridan’s maternity cover had already been decided upon.
His name was Brock Harrison and he was the business owner’s nephew.
Polly had already met him and he was exactly the entitled spoiled brat she’d expected him to be.
She could forecast what was to come. Like Jeremy, he’d start off as her junior, he’d learn just a little before he began to act like her senior, and long before he was ready, that was exactly what he would be because the male hierarchy would move to promote him above her—and in no time at all, he’d be popping his head out of his office and also asking Polly to put the kettle on.
Sheridan was just emerging from the kitchen with the coffee when the owner of the company, Charles Butler, breezed into the
department, speedwalking across the executive red carpet toward Jeremy’s office. If Sheridan hadn’t made an emergency step
backward, both of them would have been splattered in milk froth.
Sheridan followed Charles into Jeremy’s inner sanctum. Polly knew she would take as long as possible to deliver the drink
and plate of biscuits so she could mop up any gossip and bring it back to her seat. Sure enough, she was wearing a knowing
grin on her face when she returned and couldn’t wait to lean over the partition that separated their workspaces to share what
she’d just overheard.
“You should see the backslapping going on in there, and the handshaking,” Sheridan said. “It’s all to do with Nutbush’s profits.
Apparently they are through the roof.” Her brow creased then. “I wonder if they’ll call you in, Pol, and start thumping you
on the back as well, seeing as that was all down to you.”
“Let me see,” said Polly, tapping her lip with her finger. “I think I have more chance of Leonardo DiCaprio abseiling down
the side of the building in the next five minutes, climbing in through the window, and handing me a box of rose and violet
creams.”
“What are they?” asked Sheridan. “Chocolates? They sound vile.” She wrinkled up her nose at the thought of a flower and chocolate
combo.
“Don’t knock ’em till you’ve tried them.
My uncle used to buy them for my auntie, and whenever I went to visit I could choose one from the box.
” She smiled at the thought. She always smiled at thoughts of her uncle Ed and auntie Rina.
She didn’t have a lot of happy memories of her childhood, but the ones featuring them shone bright.
A year of warmth and fun and love. Then they were gone and there were no more violet or rose creams or games of Snakes and Ladders or trips out to fairs and the seaside and museums or overflowing buckets of popcorn at the cinema.
“You do know why your star hasn’t reached its full ascendancy here, of course,” said Sheridan.
Polly did, but she humored her young friend. “Go on, enlighten me.”
“You’re lacking a dick. Two actually. One in your pants and another growing out of your head.”
Polly gave a small laugh, even though it was no laughing matter, because here they were again, same scenario, different company.
A business in trouble seeking their help, Polly presenting her best ideas to the panel on how to turn them around. Polly’s
ideas getting nicked and repackaged, others taking the credit for the success. Polly forgotten.
“Next time you get a company to rescue, feed the buggers a load of duff info and watch them crash and burn, and then stand
back and let Germany take the credit for that,” said Sheridan, using one of her many nicknames for Jeremy. She rocked on her
seat to get comfortable. “I know, I know, before you start on me. You aren’t like that.”
Polly wasn’t. Many of the businesses that came to them at Northern Eagles were desperate enough to invest in their expertise.
Old family firms that had no idea how to adjust to suit present markets, or fledgling businesses that had plowed everything they had into their dreams and badly needed guidance.
People’s livelihoods were at stake, their health as well as their money.
She’d felt pride when it was her ideas that had been adopted and made the difference; she still did, but ever since the new regime began just over two years ago, not once had she been given true recognition for what she’d achieved, even though the honors had been handed out too readily to those who had done so little to earn them.
She hadn’t a clue what she was going to do about it going forward, but she was going to do something.
On Sunday a new phase of her life would begin, and she hoped that her newfound freedom would give her the confidence to make changes for herself at work as well as at home.
And she’d have a woman called Sabrina to thank for it: a character she had invented in her writing class.
Sabrina was everything Polly aspired to be, a new creature springing up from the ashes of her old self, like a brilliant phoenix, no longer happy with her lot and ready to alter things.
It was beyond bonkers that Polly found herself stirred by a person who didn’t exist that she’d conjured up from her own head and yet who was showing her the way forward.
Fictional Sabrina was leaving her cheating shit of a husband Jasper because it was the right thing to do to save herself, and Real Polly was primed to follow in her footsteps.
“Oh you little sod, behave,” said Sheridan to her stomach. “I’m as tight as a drum. Braxton-Hicks contractions. To be fair,
they don’t hurt; it’s just your body tuning up for delivery.”
Polly knew what they were. “Can I feel?” she asked.
“’Course,” said Sheridan.
Polly walked round to Sheridan’s side. She placed her hand on her bump, felt the shifting underneath her palm. She closed
her eyes and remembered how it was to have a small life growing inside so close to her heart.
“This time next month you’ll be holding him,” said Polly, removing her hand long before she wanted to.
“And then my stomach will be the equivalent of a deflated balloon.” Sheridan sighed. “Just as well, I’m going to fill it up
with another one as soon as I can.”
She had it all planned out. She’d come back to work for a bit and then get pregnant again and leave permanently to be a hands-on mum.
Her husband Dmitri was ten years older and a scientist earning a packet, not that Sheridan ever showed off about their financial status.
The only things she liked to show off about were her latest bargain finds from discount shops.
She and Polly had a thing that they could only buy each other birthday and Christmas presents from the pound shop.
“So what did you do at the weekend?” asked Sheridan, throwing over a packet of chewy toffees. Polly took one and threw it
back. They called this “confectionery tennis.” They did a lot of daft things to offset the frustrations of working in this
patriarchal black hole.
“Final check on my bridesmaid dress.”
“Oh yes, the dress ,” said Sheridan, giving the word a weight all of its own as she held up two fingers arranged as a crucifix. “And does it
still fit?”
“That’s the problem. It would fit me and half the guests. Look, I took a photo of the whole ensemble for you in the changing
room.” Polly fished her phone out of her bag, found the picture, and then handed it over the partition.
“Fuck me, it’s worse than I imagined,” said Sheridan when she realized her eyes weren’t deceiving her. “To be fair, it would
probably look okay on Harry Styles.”
“Everything looks okay on Harry Styles,” returned Polly.
“And what for the love of God is that on your head? It looks like a mucky swan.”
“It’s a fascinator.”
“Why does your sister-in-law hate you so much?”
Polly laughed at that. Camay didn’t hate her, even though she would very shortly. Camay viewed her as a mere extension of
her beloved brother and as such had never bothered to grow fond of her as a separate entity. Polly had always wanted to embrace
Chris’s family as her own, but his daughter was devious and his sister an inveterate showoff whom it was hard to warm to.
Polly was under no illusions: Camay hadn’t insisted she be the bridesmaid because they were close—Camay had all her ladies’
group cronies for friendship. There had to be another reason, though Polly couldn’t for the life of her work out what it was.
“In Camay’s eyes, if a price tag is hefty and the designer is well-known, a garment cannot possibly be awful. It’s out of
the question.”
“You have far too nice a figure for that... sack, Polly. I mean, why hasn’t she chosen something for you that goes in at
the middle and shows off that lovely small waist you have?” Sheridan crossed her arms as if she meant business. “I reckon
she’s jealous.”